Migrant

By Matt Orlando

Salinas Police Detective Mike Garcia's life had become a tranquil pond of certainty. The murder rate in Salinas had dropped by more than half. He had a loving wife and beautiful twin daughters. But when he is called to the murder of a gang member, found with his throat cut in a field owned by a rich, powerful, estranged grandfather, he is sent on a path that plunges his perfect life into turmoil. The gang retaliations escalate immediately, and the city feels the pain of wounds that still hadn't healed. The darkness he tried desperately to hide from his family is brought right to their doorstep. And now, he must not only catch his prime suspect, but he must also survive him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matt Orlando
• Release date: Jan 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201534301

Matt Orlando

Matt Orlando is a screenwriter, director, and producer who lives in Orange County, California.  After failing in the corporate world and then sucking as an MMA fight trainer for ten years, he put his hand to writing.  At least nobody was getting hurt.  His first film, “A Resurrection” was theatrically released in 2013.  Truncated: Apocalyptic and Loving It! is the first of a three part “Truncated” series…maybe a four part... who knows?   He can be reached at: [e-mail] mattorlandobooks.com or Facebook: @mattorlandobooks 

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

It had been a long bitch of a day.

He was up early. Before the sun. But he hadn’t even slept really, so why the fuck would that matter anyhow? They drove him from Santa Ana down to Chula Vista and then made him walk a mile at least to the pick-up-point where he boarded a rusty patchwork painted bus with a hoard of lettuce pickers who smelled like dirt and sweat and rotting plants. Peasants, he thought. Stinky peasants.

They would have arrived before dark had the bus not broken down twice. A flat tire first, and then steam coming out from under the hood a hundred miles later.

After exchanging a knowing nod with the bus driver, he took a seat in the back and feigned sleep when he wasn’t sleeping. The only thing he had to eat all day was a tamale presented to him by some fat-faced-Indian-looking picker. He took it smugly, offered a curt nod, ate it, and shut his eyes, daydreaming of fucking Anna again. That was three days ago. His first time, even though he’d lied about others. He was now a man.

The workers knew he wasn’t one of them. Nobody tried to talk to him. They clucked and laughed between themselves and looked away if he looked at them. He liked when they looked away.

When they arrived in Salinas, it was past nine at night. Through his dirty, water-spot covered window, he watched as the grape fields of Paso Robles gave way to flat green and purple lettuce fields that were colorless in the blanket of night. His back was aching from the metal seat, upholstered in dark green hard vinyl and crumbling foam that had lost its density, and smelled like his uncle’s old El Camino that sat rotting in the driveway. When he was younger, he would play like he was driving his little sister to the beach for a picnic when they visited.

But the image didn’t give him any pleasure. An imaginary picnic with his sister, he thought. Kid shit. Stupid kid shit. The world wasn’t like that. This wasn’t play time. It was real. He was real. You had to have respect.

He was seventeen.

And yet, here he was, standing on the outskirts of a migrant farmworker camp somewhere in the Salinas Valley holding onto a small backpack full of heroin. The bag weighed heavily on him and the hubris that helped carry it was waning. This wasn’t how he thought it would be. It wasn’t like the movies.

Jose, whoever the fuck that was, wasn’t there to meet him. Probably because they were late because of the shitty bus.

So he stood outside the mingled embraces of family and friends as the workers dispersed down dark streets and crumbling homes. He could smell beans and fresh tortillas wafting from open windows, weakening his already tentative resolve. He steeled himself and stayed upright in case Jose approached and caught him looking weak.

They didn’t let him bring a phone or even a gun. Nothing that would call attention to him or be a way to trace him back to the Family. This was something new they were trying, sending up soldiers to look like migrant workers. He was wearing a flannel and work boots, but he knew he didn’t fit in. His hands were soft and clean, and he smelled like Axe body-wash.

They used to force dumb peasants fresh out of Mexico to lug the dope. But that had its own set of problems. A scared shitless dumb fucking field picker might do something stupid. Like get caught and name places. Name names. But not a soldier. They didn’t name names. Names got you killed. Time and again the Family made examples of rat-fucks who named names. Those guys got it bad. And they got to witness their innocent relatives get it bad too. Right before they went to heaven.

After asking three goddamned lettuce pickers if they knew a Jose before they retreated into the dark and getting only two frightened blank stares and a no, he stood there in front of the bus waiting. The engine clinked and clacked as it cooled in ringtone rhythms. At some point it stopped, and all was silent but for the hum of a road in the distance that he couldn’t see and warm laughter from inside the tiny clapboard homes.

He probably waited three hours on burning feet and a screaming back before he decided to walk toward the lights of the city. Or whatever it was.

He could have been on another planet for all he knew. The rotten smell of rich, fertilized soil. Even in the dark he could see that those lettuce fields went on forever like an ink black river with no end, and he was walking right down into it. Into the dark. He was disoriented, but he wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t supposed to show fear. Or be afraid of anything. He told himself he wasn’t. That he could handle anything. Anything for his Family.

And yet, his legs wobbled beneath him, betraying that voice that said he was born for this. That when he did succeed, he would get a bigger button. That this was better it was happening this way so that he could prove himself. Show that he had talent. That he was someone to be respected.

His heart raced as old clunker shit-mobiles drifted their headlights down the road in front of him and then parked at homes in no better condition than the cars. Just more peasants out getting drunk at dingy Mexican pubs, or whatever the fuck they did. Probably off fucking their cousins, he thought.

He’d taken the job with excitement and enthusiasm. His head nodding steadily in approval. But even as he nodded and postured, his heart sank. This wasn’t what he signed up for. A fucking drug mule. An experiment. Why didn’t they make one of these peasant fucks eat it and then cut them open when they got here? He was better than this. He was a soldier. They must have picked him because they saw something in him though. They must have thought he was someone they could trust. Someone who was smart. Had balls. That’s why they picked me, he thought.

But they weren’t here to pick him up. Or the five pounds of chiva. He was shivering. Fucking lettuce pickers wouldn’t help him. Pendejos.

But good. The harder this was, the better the outcome. Hopefully.

This would earn him respect. His stomach rumbled.

He would get that promotion. His legs ached.

He would be someone. He was close to crying.

Each step brought him closer to the story of glory that he played over in his head on repeat: Get to town. Find a phone. Call. But he didn’t know anyone’s number. His cellphone knew them. But wait, he almost had it… seven one four — eight three… No. But it will come to him. And fuck it if he can’t remember a number, he’d find some down ass looking mother fuckers and get some names. Streets are filled with Family members. This is where the hardcore homies came to party. Salinas. The proving grounds. They would take him to Jose. Jose would embrace him as a brother. Jose would tell the story of his ingenuity to the other soldiers: That’s how you do it. Like him, you little putos! All while he sat back and sipped a cerveza and puffed the mota with a proud grin.

He had just finished that thought, then started back from the top — seven one four — eight three — no, four — it will come to him — when the thick plastic bag was snapped over his head like someone whipping a trash bag in the air violently to open it, smashing his face like what a two-story fall face down on cement must have looked like. He felt the hot blood running down his chest before he felt the sear of the slice along his throat that seemed to happen out of order.

His hands came to the bag but found no purchase on the slick tight plastic. He tried to push his tongue between his lips instinctively to create a hole where there wasn’t one, and his teeth cut into his tongue, releasing that tangy, salty taste. The hot blood that poured over him like a waterfall was a wild contrast to the freezing cold he felt only seconds ago that shivered his body in conjunction with the helpless fear that had overtaken him.

And yet, despite the facts befalling him now — the blood that sprayed out in rain-like patters on the moist dirt of the forever fields in a rhythm that didn’t seem to match his racing heart, and that thick opaque plastic smashing his face in like a macabre snuff cartoon, he still thought, I’m going to be a hero.

CHAPTER 2

Mike Garcia had the cup of coffee to his lips when his cellphone rang.

Emily and the kids weren’t up yet, so the house was quiet. He was looking out his window to a thin fog that covered the horse corral and wove through the surrounding oaks. A deep serenity had seeped in, just like the fog. Startled by the ring, he spilled coffee onto the phone. He cursed as he clumsily tried to wipe it while simultaneously answering it before it woke the house.

Another homicide.

He was awake at least an hour before his alarm went off, going over his three open cases, and carefully shut it off one minute before it played a classical music riff he knew from somewhere but couldn’t place.

Now he had four homicides.

Before he left, he padded up the stairs and looked into the rooms of his wife and children as he always did. It was a ritual he inherited when he was a beat cop and things were ugly in Salinas. You didn’t know if you were coming home.

The girls were sleeping at odd sideways angles in their small beds looking like twisted clock hands with sheets wrapped around them like tornados. Their hair was tangled and draped out like crumpled dirty-blond yarn. For a moment, he forgot he was heading to a homicide.

Emily was lying facing the door, and she smiled slowly before her sleepy eyes opened, and mouthed, I love you. He mouthed it back and left for work.

The narrow two-lane winding road of San Benancio canyon wove steeply up and down a tall hill that sat in the middle between Monterey and the first lettuce fields of Salinas. Massive oaks lined the roadway like sturdy pillars with dark green plastic-like leaves stretching over the asphalt in a shadowy canopy. It was a slow drive that Mike welcomed. It cleared his head when he left, a brief calming breeze before the storm, and then washed him clean before returning home with the baggage of the dead.

He made a right onto Highway 68; a two-lane stretch between rolling hills that connected Salinas to Monterey. There were upscale, older tract homes on the left, and steep hills dotted with cows to the right. But then the hills gave way to a flat openness that was the Salinas Valley farmland. A place with soil so rich and conditions so right that they farmed multiple growing seasons in Spring and Fall, producing more lettuce here than the entire world combined. The Salad Bowl of the World.

Migrant workers were already in the fields with small hoes turning plants and creating space for the crop to come. Massive tractors tilled and spread fertilizer, and the eastern horizon began to glow from the rising sun.

Mike kept his thoughts present and let these images replenish his soul. Soon, he would see a murdered human being. Evidently, a young gangster. A kid who could probably barely drive a car. If he even had his license yet.

Every time there was an uptick in gang violence, Mike was put on edge, and his thoughts would rush back to when he became a Salinas cop in 2009, fresh from college, fresh from the academy, and right in the middle of what was called The War. When Salinas had become the youth murder capital of California. Per capita, the highest murder rate in the state. Most of them just kids. A seven day, seven murder streak his first month. An innocent six-year-old boy struck in the head by a stray bullet his first night on the job. Some barely known sleepy farm town with rich Hispanic history, and the story grounds for John Steinbeck books, had become a war zone. A place with cowboys, and rodeos, and lettuce fields, and the ground zero California dividing line for two of the most powerful Mexican criminal organizations in the nation.

Mike had seen the rise of these dark empires growing within the quiet neighborhoods of hard-working blue-collar families as he grew himself. On more than one occasion he thought that he could have been one of them, had it not been for his talent of running an oblong ball across a grass field, and the omniscient presence of a strong mother whose conviction ran down to the center of the earth. He lost friends that took that other path in high school. Kids he grew up playing Pee-Wee football with, sharing in halftime Gatorade and orange slices. They had transformed before his eyes. Innocent, silly children, shedding robes of white and emerging as hardened killers.

At thirty-three, Mike was fairly young for a homicide detective. He put in his work as a beat cop during The War. Nightly murders. Stabbings. Overdoses. With Salinas’s low tax revenue, there were only one-hundred-eighty officers trying to manage the wills of thirty-five-hundred violent gangsters back then.

There was relative peace now, even with less officers. One-hundred-fifty. Ever declining tax revenue saw to that. There were only ten murders this year, Mike thought as he drove.

Only.

It was crazy to him that he thought that. Only.

With today, eleven, he said aloud to himself.

CHAPTER 3

Mike exchanged his F-150 pick-up for his detective’s car, a dark metallic-gray Ford Crown Victoria and headed to the crime scene.

When he arrived, the tape was up and two police cruisers blocked the alleyway. Mike ducked under the tape and nodded to an unfamiliar officer who stood on the other side near his cruiser. The second officer turned out to be Maurice, Reese Robertson. His best friend. Maybe his only friend. He was black, and everything about him was round. Not fat. Round. Round chest, round shoulders, round legs. Even his head was almost perfectly round and shaved to a polished black dome. Mike called him Bolla Ocho. Eight ball.

Olie. It was short for Oliverde — green eyes.

Bolla Ocho, what do we got?

Well, we got this guy over here. He’s a Sureño. I think you know him.

Sureño meant Southerner. It was the blanket name of the affiliate gangs who paid homage and drug taxes to La Eme, the Mexican Mafia, who ran their operations from behind Southern California prison walls.

The body had been found by an employee of the Denny’s by the trash bins behind the restaurant. The kid was face down, arms at his sides, legs stretched perfectly back behind him. He was wearing a black Laker’s t-shirt with a Kobe number 8. He was thin, not even into his man-body yet. Baby soft skin and a wannabe mustache that wouldn’t fill in for years. And now, it would never be.

The buckshot was a small enough group to hit his left shoulder and head. His face was turned towards Mike.

He did know him. Teddy Ramos. South Salinas. A crazy, but articulate kid who you could tell wasn’t going to make it. He was like a fly that would keep buzzing around and every time it got swatted at, it came back for more. Mike knew the father as well. An OG. Original Gangster. He would take this hard. Mike knew he would have to be the one to knock on that door, the barer of bad news. It was something he wasn’t looking forward to. That is, if Teddy’s father didn’t know already. The gangs had a way of leaking out information like an ad agency. They wanted you to know who was responsible. They wanted you to hurt. And they didn’t want to leave any question as to the culprit. It was a game of power by attrition, and any gang related murder put a heavy weight on the officers that had survived The War. They knew that even one murder could start the whole thing off again.

What the hell was he doing up here? Reese asked.

Up here was North Salinas and Teddy Ramos was smack dab dead center between two blocks separated by two tough Norteño cliques.

The Norteños were the Northern Mexican affiliate gangs. They were run out of the Northern California prisons by Hispanics who branched off from La Eme in the late 60’s and formed their own organization, Nuestra Familia. Our Family.

Whatever he was doing, he was running for his life.

His body was positioned in a head-dive forward, arms at his sides, a small smear of blood as his body had skidded to a full stop.

Drive-by?

Yeah. Let’s get their camera footage.

Okay.

Reese circled around to the restaurant entrance.

They would check all the street intersection cams as well. Someone drove here. And someone probably drove Teddy to North Salinas from the Eastside. He for sure didn’t make the walk.

Mike knelt next to the child.

He was used to seeing the dead. Often just kids. Sometimes with holes through their heads making them shaped like a deflated playground ball. This shouldn’t be — he thought. And then his other voice answered, the one that kept him sane — but it is.

What brought you here? he asked Teddy Ramos, who would answer in due time.

Jerry Wild pulled up in his detective’s car that matched Mike’s and exited. It was a surprising event. Jerry worked the south-side. He was a massive man, tall, and the burrito-good-life helped his ever-enlarging gut. His pink-white bald head was like an oblong pumpkin. Jerry straightened his tie and strolled over. He was a soft-spoken giant and Mike liked him.

What do we got?

Mike stood, confused, Teddy Ramos.

Goddamn, Jerry said as he stood next to the body, getting a visual confirmation of the face. What the hell were you doing up here? he whispered to the kid.

Reese walked up, just as confused as Mike. Hey, Jerry, he said while extending the video camera footage in a DVD jewel case out to Mike.

I’ll take that, Jerry said, and took it.

Speechless, Mike stared.

You’re headed to Hernandez fields. Jerry said, This is my case now. That one’s yours.

That one?

They have a body in an irrigation ditch. Throat cut. Or so I hear. Chief wants you on that, and me on this.

Off Mike’s look, Jerry shrugged, I have no idea. Don’t kill the messenger.

Mike and Reese shared a look. Reese shrugged.

Wait, did you say Hernandez fields?

That’s right, Jerry answered, Just off Old Stage, I think, it’s not like it has a real address.

Mike held a blank stare so distant that Reese and Jerry communicated a look of concern.

Reese asked him, What is it?

Mike snapped out of it.

Oh, it’s nothing. To Jerry he said, Okay, thanks, I hope it doesn’t put you out.

Fine by me. They got Maria’s Tacos up here, so it’s a fair trade.

Mike nodded vacantly and walked to his car, his gears turning overtime. Reese trotted after him, grabbing his arm gently. Hey, man, what’s wrong?

It’s nothing, I promise, I think there’s been a mix-up somehow, but I’ll fix it.

Reese saw right through Mike’s covering, slack but fake expression, and didn’t hide it.

I’ll be back on this, it’s just a misunderstanding. Give Jerry a hand. I’ll call you later.

Okay, Olie, let’s get lunch.

Mike opened his door and provided another fake covering smile.

You bet, he said, We’ll have you guys over for dinner. Emily keeps asking about you and Trish. I told her you hate driving on the weekends and would rather stay home and watch your Netflix.

You told her correctly, my friend. You sure nothing’s wrong?

It’s fine, I’ll call you.

Okay, Olie, okay. Reese waved him off and turned towards the crime scene where Jerry walked in small circles with inch-long steps, searching the ground.

Mike lifted his phone and stared at it. He decided to wait until he was on the road and pulled away.

He dialed the station.

Salinas Police Department.

Hi, this is Detective Garcia, can I speak with Chief Wagner please?

Hold on, Detective.

Instantly, the chief answered, Chief Wagner.

It was quicker than Mike thought and caught him off-guard.

Hi, Chief, uh…

I was waiting for your call. I didn’t ask for this anymore than you. I don’t know why, I don’t know how, but I know when a request is more than a request.

Can I ask who?

You can ask all you want.

There was irritation in the chief’s voice.

Wagner had been on for six months, replacing Gabriel Huera, the previous chief, and Mike’s friend and mentor. He’d come from a Southern California city, Torrance, a tough enough city in its own right. Evidently, the mayor thought that he was the type of chief the city needed. One of those, spit on the sidewalk, and end up in cuffs kind of chiefs. He didn’t mince words or play soft with the gangsters, or with Mike.

Mike thought for a long moment on how to proceed. Someone had gone over the Chief’s head, and he wasn’t pleased.

Is there a problem, Detective Garcia?

There could be. That’s my grandfather’s property.

A long moment of silence passed as Mike drove. He was ready to turn around. He wanted to turn around.

Mike tried to break the silence, I —

And this a problem, how?

It wasn’t what Mike expected.

Well, I figured conflict of interest —

Did he call you first?

Who?

Your grandfather. You already know about this?

I’ve never met him.

Another long pause ensued. There was no question that Mike was turning around.

Then I don’t see a problem.

The chief hung up.

Mike drove with the phone to his ear for at least a mile before he set it down on the seat next to him. He searched for answers. They came back as they always did to a detective. The simple ones were the right ones. The mayor called the chief.

But who called the mayor?

Right now, it didn’t matter.

He was going to Old Stage Road to the fields owned by a grandfather he’d never met, to investigate a homicide.

CHAPTER 4

Mike drove Highway 101 that split the center of Salinas valley between lettuce fields that stretched to the sides of tall, rolling, oak spattered hills.

He took the Old Stage exit, the fields covered in shades of greens and purples. Migrant farm workers picked and hoed. Their buses and cars lined the dark, dirt edges of the fields where filled boxes of vegetables were stacked high on open-bed trucks. He could smell the earthy bite of turned soil and rolled down his window.

Even within the splendor, his hands wrenched the steering wheel and his jaw clenched. He was wondering if his grandfather would be there. He also wondered how he would react to him if he was. It was odd to him that he hadn’t thought about his grandfather in years, but that he could have such an acidic reaction to the thought of meeting him.

Miles of fields led him to yellow wind-blown police tape that squared off a portion of field and dirt. Two police cruisers and a crime scene van were parked on the outskirts. Bent over workers glanced up at him from cuts to the bases of lettuce heads.

Mike placed his personal questions into a mental basement and exited his car. His black leather sensible detective shoes depressed lightly into the soft moist soil.

The fields stretched across the horizon like an ocean. He was struck with a sense of awe. You could drive through them on the freeway, but really didn’t feel the true magnitude until you were standing in the middle of it.

He searched the area for any sign of his grandfather, and when he didn’t see him, he felt an instant release; the muscles in his neck loosened, and he let out a long breath, one he didn’t know he was holding. He was grateful for the task however, it gave him something to focus on, though the idea that this place was owned by his grandfather buzzed in the back of his brain like a fly trapped behind a window.

He ducked under the tape where three white shapes in coveralls and face-masks knelt. One looked up to him as he approached.

Where’s Wild? the confused voice asked. It was Sarah Conrad. She was thorough and smart. Mike was pleased. A ten-year vet, he’d worked with her on many cases.

He’s up on the Northside. Drive-by.

What are you doing here?

It wasn’t an insult. Everyone was just as confused as he was.

Don’t know. What do we got?

The two other white-coveralled crime scene people looked up to him, nodded in recognition, and took a few steps out of the way.

Mike finally got a glimpse into the irrigation ditch that ran the length of the field. Twisted, almost like a swastika, a young man was sprawled, his feet up one side, and his arms up the other side of the steep embankment.

Muddy water had formed a dam and then flowed steadily over his waist. A thick opaque plastic bag was stretched loosely across his face. His throat was slit to the bone in a wide toothless grin from one side to the other.

"Male. Fifteen to eighteen. Hispanic. He was probably dumped